


Dead Matters

by elle2706



Series: Mediator AU [1]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Bandom Big Bang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle2706/pseuds/elle2706
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank is a mediator, a person capable of seeing and communicating with ghosts and tasked with helping them.  He is looking forward to new beginnings after moving out of his mother's house and finding a new job. Unfortunately, the ghost of his new apartment’s last tenant is still making use of the place, and Gerard is not agreeable about vacating it anytime soon. Dealing with an unwanted roommate is the least of Frank’s new found troubles when it turns out his new boss has an angry ghost stalking him whose intentions are leaning towards murder. Looks like new beginnings are turning out to be overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Click](http://8tracks.com/teighcorbie/living-betwixt-and-between)! for an amazing mix by crowgirl13!
> 
> Art was created by [truthismusic](http://truthismusic.dreamwidth.org/4781.html)! 
> 
> To my artist and mixer: thank you for making this story so much better with your respective work.  
> Cstaar, thanks for motivating me through it all.
> 
> Disclaimer: Besides Bandom, this fic was also inspired by Meg Cabot's Mediator Series

There is a ghost in my apartment.

Because this is the life of Frank A. Iero, _of course_ there would be a ghost in my new apartment.  It shouldn’t have surprised me, honestly. But it did.  Because A) I had made certain to give a thorough inspection of all prospective apartments I was looking into specifically for ghostly residents. Most likely this guy was out when I came for a walk-through or was shy enough to dematerialize when the landlord let me in to inspect the place. Dematerializing, it was one of the _many_ annoying habits ghosts have.

And surprised because B) at first glance I mistook the guy for being . . . well, alive.

 It’s easy to pick out a ghost from a line-up of the still-living; all of them have a white washed quality to their appearance, more blurred around the edges as if I was seeing them through a smudged windowpane. According to Grandpa, the older or the closer to “passing on” the soul was, the more insubstantial they became.

 But the ghost in my living room looked as solid and vibrant as anyone with a pulse and breath. Though the vibrancy could have been amplified by the ridiculous shade of red the ghost’s hair was, almost Ronald McDonald-red in color.

“The hell?” I said from the doorway, laden with canvas totes filled with groceries in both hands, certain that I walked in on a squatter sitting on my futon.  

The guy looked up from contemplating his palm’s lifeline or whatever, dark eyes widening in shock.

It was only as I stared at him a few seconds longer, noticing how his chest did not rise and fall with needed breath that I made out the tell-tale corona of a glow emanating from him as it did all ghosts. It was faint, but there. I felt a rush of disappointment followed by quick annoyance.

The ghost opened his mouth as if to say something.

“Frankie? What’s wrong?” My mother’s voice asked from behind me, effectively breaking my stillness from the doorway.

“Nothing, I just . . .  thought I saw something.” I said distractedly, moving from the doorway towards the small kitchen, avoiding packed boxes and keeping track peripherally as the ghost slowly stood up from the futon. My mother in her blithe unawareness almost walked into, and would have walked _through_ , my uninvited houseguest, but he quickly backpedaled out of her way quickly in a flurry of panicked motion and tucked himself into the farthest corner of the living room.

 “Saw something?” The alarm in my mother’s voice made me regret my poor choice of words.

“A huge spider,” I quickly recovered, injecting as much casual easiness into my tone as I could. “But it was just a dustbunny, I think.”

Mom expelled a small, almost silent, sigh of relief.  She doesn’t know about my “I can see ghosts and communicate with them” party trick. I have spent a lifetime treading lightly with my Mom, more so lately than usual. She’s a small, delicate-boned woman with hands worn and tired from working hard. Despite the strength of her work ethic, Mom is quick to worry and one of the first to leap to conclusions predicting catastrophe and chaos. None of her anxieties ever contemplated having a son with the freakish job of helping the souls of the dead, I bet.  Though I know she suspects that I am not exactly normal; a fact she finds comfort by blaming it on my father running off before I was even born.

If it wasn’t for my Grandpa I probably would have counted myself as crazy long ago and checked myself into Bellevue.  As a fellow mediator, he quickly realized that the imaginary friends I went on and on about as a kid were less imaginary and more ectoplasmic. It fell on Gramps to explain the whole mediator business, about how it was my duty, a payless, thankless duty I must add, to help the spirits move on.

Sounds cool, right? Well it isn’t.  Try living a life with any semblance of normal when you have ghosts materializing and vying for your attention. I could be grocery shopping with my mom, and the ghost of the grocery store’s butcher will follow me pleading me to do him the favor of burning the collection of Lolita porn videos hidden in his attic before his wife finds them. Seriously.

A nice peaceful evening playing my guitar after a crappy day at school can be suddenly interrupted by the ghost of kid in a hospital gown asking you to help him find his mom. _Christ._

Grandpa loved calling this ability a blessing; I see it more as a burden.

I went about collecting my canvas grocery bags and folding them. Mom glanced around the apartment, “This place is a bit small.”

 “It’ll just be me,” I resisted glaring at the ghost, “so I’m sure it will be comfortable.”

Mom ran a finger across the kitchen counter and frowned at whatever offensive dust her Mom-Vision sighted. “Maybe I could help you clean while you unpack?”

I shook my head, “No, it’ll only get dirty again as I’m unpacking.” She pouted a bit which made me smile. “Thanks, Mom. You already helped a lot just buying me a load of groceries and cleaning supplies.” I tilted my head at the battalion of cleaning supplies on the counter Mom insisted every household needed.  

Mom pulled me in for a hug, “Of course, Frankie.” Her embrace was warm, clean-laundry scented, and tender. I was reminded of how much I loved her.

I hugged her back. Through my mom’s dark hair, I could see the ghost watching us with a small smile on his crooked mouth. I narrowed my eyes at him, and the smile quickly disappeared.

“Frankie?”

“Yea?”

Mom pulled back and looked up at the ceiling fan in the living room making lazy, wobbly revolutions with a frown. “You should call your landlord about that fan. Doesn’t look like it’s bolted properly and it could fall on your head one of these days. Then where would you be?” She narrowed her gaze further as if daring the ceiling fan to fall down.

I was able to resist rolling my eyes, but a chuckle escaped before I could clamp my lips and then quickly petered out when she gave me a bland look. “Right. I’ll let the landlord know. Let’s get finished here and I’ll get you back home, yea?” I could feel the weight of the ghost’s curious stare between my shoulder blades like a living thing. But there wasn’t much I could do about him with Mom around.

Thankfully, she nodded in agreement. I ignored him during the small while it took us to finish putting away the groceries. I found it odd how he wasn’t making an effort to attract my attention the way so many ghosts seeking my help do.  He was silent in his corner of the room, an unmoving trim figure faintly glowing. I didn’t glance back at him, despite a bizarre urge to do so, as we left my apartment. Once outside I mentally pushed him to the back of my mind to deal with later. Knowing my luck Casper would still be around when I came back . . . I would see how much trouble this spook would be then.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as we arrived at mom’s place, she immediately busied herself in the kitchen while I made two trips to and from the car packing the last of my possessions. I poked my head around a wall into the kitchen to tell her I was headed out.

She nodded at me and took her time wringing out the dish rag she was wiping the counters with. I waited patiently, well versed with my mother’s stalling techniques. Finally she stepped over to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, Frankie. You come and visit me when you have the chance.” Her brown eyes warmed, “I’ll miss you.”

I huffed out a laugh, “Ma, it’s not like I’m leaving Jersey. I’ll only be a fifteen minute drive away.” With a shrug, I relented, “I’ll miss you too.”  I didn’t expect to feel the slight constriction in my throat and took it as a sign to make my way out.

“Frank?” My mother’s voice was soft but the gravity carried through and stopped me right at the threshold.

I glanced back at her, “Yea?”

She hesitated before forging ahead, “Just . . . If you need anything, any kind of help . . . You call me, ok?” There was an underlying message beneath her words practically vibrating with worry and anxiety.

I held back a sigh and didn’t even bother with a smile, suddenly feeling like a sheltered invalid. I nodded stiffly as a response before stepping into the hot evening air further convinced that this move was the best for both of us really.  Besides, this was bound to happen sooner or later. So moving out right before the ink on my high school diploma has had a chance to dry could hardly be seen as running away. Right? 

I was a yard away when I realized someone was already waiting for me in the passenger seat of my car. My car which I am one hundred percent positive I locked before heading back into the house – of course, you just don’t leave a car unlocked in my neighborhood packed belongings in the car or not. I cursed beneath my breath and steeled myself as I continued the walk to my car, hoping whoever was waiting for me wasn’t A) hysterical B) violent C) unaware that they’re dead or D) All of the above. Yep, my life was a walk in a rose garden fertilized by all the shit that gets thrown my way.

My annoyance was immediately forgotten once I saw it was only Dewees. His sandaled feet were on the dashboard while he hooked both of arms around the headrest, his eyes downcast as if he was in the middle of peaceful doze. As soon as I settled into the driver’s side, I smacked his feet of the dash.

“How many times do I have to say feet off the dash, fucker?” I said by way of greeting.

“Nag, nag, nag. It’s nice to see you, too dear.” A smirk was already creeping on his face as he curved his torso forward for a good stretch. And I couldn’t help my own smile at the hippie as I shifted the car to drive. It was good to see Dewees, even if his unfortunate taste in clothing before his death always gave me a case of second-hand embarrassment.  His burgundy corduroy, bell-bottom pants were snug and came with a matching jacket with imitation-pearl topped cufflinks. A loose dress shirt the color of a fresh bruise printed with a horrendous paisley pattern finished the ensemble.

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you before I left.” I came to a full stop at a stop sign.

“Hah, as if I was going to let you move on out without me tailing your ass.” Dewees removed his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with his shirt, a constant habit of his that I assume he’s had since he was alive.

“Oh? Is this what you call tailing? Hitching a ride to my new place?”

“Fuck off.” Dewees’s feet were back on the dashboard, and I couldn’t bother myself to care. It was always easy to relax with Dewees, even if he was older than me before he croaked back in ’72. The dude was always easy going no matter the situation. Even back when I threw up on him a couple of years ago when I was drunk off my ass in an alleyway behind a bar. Sure, it’s not like the vomit even touched him, but it’s definitely not the most ideal of first meetings. Dewees didn’t even blink twice during my profuse drunken apologies or at the fact that I was able to see him; he just tsked, slung an arm around me and helped me stumble my way back home. He’s been a reoccurring presence in my life since, probably the closest thing I could call a friend.

 “So why the move? You didn’t mention anything about striking it on your own last time I saw you, kid.” He pouted a bit as if I purposefully left him out of the news.

 I could feel my face set into a scowl and attempted to relax it back to simple cheerfulness, “I didn’t really actually decide on moving out until a month before graduation.”

I guess I didn’t hide my reticence as well as I thought because Dewees was silent for all of two seconds before clearing his throat and asking, “What happened?” His tone was uncharacteristically tentative, as if he knew the answer might not be a simple, carefree explanation.

My focus was on merging into a left lane, my fingers tapping out a steady beat on the steering wheel. Well, most of my focus was on adhering to traffic laws, but a small part of me was revisiting a memory months old.

I can’t actually recall what I was even looking for in my mom’s room. It doesn’t matter. The brochure was what mattered; it’s what this particular memory narrows in like a telescopic lens. Mixed in with the rest of the paper debris inside of my mother’s nightstand drawer I pulled out the brochure. **Trenton Behavioral Treatment and Psychiatric Facility** it read in black and white gloss. Uncomprehendingly, I sat on the edge of my mother’s bed, distantly hearing the kitchen sounds of her cooking up dinner, flipping through it. It was informative, showcased pictures of health care professionals and patients smiling sanely. Within its sterile language, it was easy to grasp that the facility was the kind of place to drop off burdensome, possibly mental family members or denizens on the outskirts of society for repairs.

Surely I didn’t fall into either category, right? I knew I was sane and, considering my particular talent, attempting to live a somewhat normal life. But fear spilled greasy apprehension through me and drew up with malicious clarity images of me getting signed into, trapped, into a place like the facility. Who knows how long the brochure could have been in her nightstand drawer? Mom had never brought it up. It could have been a passing thought long since snuffed out, I tried soothing myself.  It was useless though, my heart grew heavy knowing that she even considered sending me away.

 Seeing myself through my mom’s perspective – her only son, one with no friends or social life outside of a part-time job at his uncle’s ice cream shop; a boy with mood swings and with a habit of showing up with unexplained bruises or scrapes; a worrying tendency to talk to thin air; a truant who occasionally gets in trouble with the school for truancy or, on one memorable occasion, the law for trespassing – I could see a thin thread of logic for her contemplation. The change of perspective did nothing for the blooming sense of betrayal.

 “Frankie.” Dewees’s voice broke me out of my thoughts and I realized my knuckles were white with how tightly I was holding onto the steering wheel.

 I gave a one-shouldered shrug, “Nah, man, nothing happened.”  A glance at Dewees revealed a disbelieving stare, so I stuck to a sliver of the truth. “I just decided it was best for both of us if I left as soon as I could. It’s getting harder hiding this seeing ghosts thing from her.”

There was a taut silence. Finally, Dewees let me drop the subject and began to recount his latest adventures. On the rare days I believe in destiny, I like to think Dewees was destined to be a ghost. He’s such a free spirit (and I really didn’t mean the pun). From what he’s told me about his life back when it could literally be called living, he was pretty bummed by how he couldn’t make it out of his small hometown in Missouri and settled for using other chemical means to “expand his horizons” as he so phrased it. Surprisingly, Dewees didn’t die of an overdose which was my snap judgment. “I tripped over a fuckin’ cat and fell down a flight a stairs! Figured I broke my neck – snap, crackle, pop – cuz next thing I know, I’m a ghostie,” he had explained with a chuckle. Anyway, now that he’s incorporeal, he goes anywhere and does anything his heart desires, and he seems honestly happy.

If all ghosts could be like Dewees . . . well, I think my life would be so much easier.

I pulled up into my apartment’s parking lot and shifted the car into park just as Dewees was finishing up a story about stalking Alice Cooper for a month. “I seriously think the Coopster and me would make a dynamic ghostly duo. If he decides to stick around once he kicks the bucket, I mean.”

“Perish the thought. Alice is immortal.” I said as I got out of the car.

“Truth. Which one’s yours?” Dewees asked pointing his chin towards the apartments.

The apartment complex was a squat, grey-bricked fourplex in the middle of a neighborhood lined with old, but steadfast houses. It was pretty quiet save for the spontaneous burst of laughter coming from a pair of kids playing in a kiddie pool a few houses down.

I pointed at the apartment on the bottom left, 1B.

Dewees gave a nod and said “Noted.” He watched me for a few seconds as I opened the trunk to start unloading boxes before he clapped me on the shoulder saying, “Well, I’d love to help, but there’s a Shakespeare in the Park showing at Central Park, wouldn’t want to miss that.”

I rolled my eyes as I hefted a heavy box, “Figures you’d bail just when you could help me unload.”

“That’s what he said.” Dewees winked then laughed at my pained expression before he dematerialized.

“Asshole,” I muttered below my breath.

* * *

 

 

The sun was starting to set as I carried the last of my stuff through my apartment door. I huffed out a breath from exhaustion and rubbed a sore muscle at the base of my back.  The apartment wasn’t cool yet, though the hum of the AC filled the silence of my new place.

Home was now a small apartment with a living room that also acted as a dining area. The kitchen was hardly more than a counter and scratched kitchen appliances sporting peeling wallpaper printed with cabbage roses. My bedroom boasted an ensuite and charming window seat that would make a nice reading area, and the closet can hardly be described since was practically nonexistent.  It was a small space without the claustrophobia and currently absent of a ghostly visitor.

That took me by surprise, not seeing Casper. Ghosts can be fickle and flakey, so it wouldn’t be too much of a leap to assume the guy got tired of waiting on me. He might be back, or I may never see him again. Can’t say I was disappointed not having to deal with whatever request Casper would have had for me.

 _Living on a Prayer_ played from a CD radio player I’ve owned since I was nine as I moved boxes to their respective areas. Kitchen stuff in the kitchen, third-hand tv, small bookshelf, cheap, garage sale bought card table in the living room . . . On an on I went in a repetitive manner, my thoughts roaming lazily until they circled around the dawning realization that I was actually doing it: living on my own.  The danger of my mom possibly siccing a psychiatrist on me was distant; private school and the daily ritual of being seen through by my peers were firmly in the past. Tomorrow I would start my new job; right at this moment I was unpacking my life into a space that, for at least a year, was totally _mine_.

Thrill rushed through me with warm pride at its heels, I joined Bon Jovi on the last chorus. Riding on the sensation of it all, I turned and nearly collided with Casper. A choked gurgle of surprise escaped my mouth. Seriously, one minute you’re enjoying your solitude and the next a ghost is all up in your personal space. _Fucking ghosts._

“Great, you’re back,” I said.

The ghost’s mouth dropped into a gape for a few seconds before it recovered into a disbelieving, crooked smile. His eyes were a whiskey brown and wide with surprise. “So you _can_ see me!”

I took a couple steps back, both as way to regain my personal space and not have to tilt my head up so high; this guy was taller than me by a good couple of inches.  He was broad shouldered with a slight stoop, wrapped in tight black jeans, boots, and a dove grey sweater that fit pretty loosely on his frame. It was the hair, bright screaming red and mad scientist in style, framing a face with the usual features – wide eyes, pert nose, and thin lips – that added a dash of Technicolor to his drab outfit. Altogether, he made a striking package, and that was a worrying though I did not want to dwell on. Really, it was the uncanny solidity of this ghost that caught my attention for a longer time than was polite.

I forced myself to say something. “Uh-huh. So what is –“ Before I could ask him what he wanted, the ghost interrupted with a torrent of words that nearly crashed into one another, the darkening shadows of my living room made his eyes dark, though they shone with excitement.

“Whoa! Whoa, that’s so cool. How long have you’ve been able to do this kind of thing? Wait, is it just me you can see? Kind of like Whoopie only being able to see Swayze in _Ghost_ or, or could you see all ghosts? Wait, what’s that –“

“Dude, chill!” I flapped my arms at him and, surprisingly, he did quiet down with a sheepish expression. I sighed and rubbed the back of neck thinking about my soft bed that had yet to be set up. “Okay, my personal history is not necessary to know. The cut and dry of it is I can see and talk to ghosts. What we really should get to is what exactly you need?”

He blinked at me for a second before he repeated, “Need?”

“Yea, need. Like don’t you have a request you need fulfilled or a confession of some kind to tell so that you can move on?”  At the ghost’s blank stare, I said, “Didn’t you come seeking my help?”

 He shook his head and crossed his arms, “Uhm, no. I didn’t even know for sure if you could see me until just now.”  

I didn’t bother restraining the impatience from my voice when I asked, “They why are you here?”

The ghost wouldn’t look at me, his gaze shifting over to some boxes, hand ruffling through his soft looking hair. “Well, I live here. Or at least I did back when I was alive.”

“Hell no,” I wasn’t proud about the slight screech in my voice but this was not what I signed up for with my lease. “Please don’t tell me you are haunting this place.”

At my outburst, his friendly features shifted. The ghost held up his chin and looked down his nose at me with a mulish expression that had me clenching my teeth, “Well I’m not rattling chains and possessing tenants, no. “ 

I rubbed at the headache I could feel forming at my temples. “Look, I’m sorry, dude. But, you’re not exactly living here anymore or in a literal, general breathing sense. I am. Living here now, I mean, so you have to . . .” I gestured towards the door, “leave. Find some other place to haunt.” 

“No.” The ghost said simply.

I took a calming breath. _Find your zen, Frank_.  “Okay, you don’t need my help,” I made a fluttering motion with my fingers trying to convey mysticism, “moving on?”

The ghost mocked my fluttering finger motion and said slowly, “Nooo.”

 _Fuck zen_. “Then I don’t see why we’re still talking. Beat it, Casper, before I kick your ass out of here,” I practically growled and walked right up to him.

The asshole didn’t back up. He only crossed his arms and looked down at me from his nose which did nothing to appease my temper. “It’s Gerard.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Gerard, not Casper.”

“Uh-huh, now listen carefully, _Casper_.” It gave me a jolt of pleasure to see the ghost grit his teeth. “I didn’t sign up for a roommate. You don’t want my help moving on? Fine, but you’ve got to move on from this place, got it?” I gave his chest a slight shove, nothing too violent, more of a warning, before I pivoted and stalked back to my room. “Next time I come in here, I hope I don’t see you.” I glanced back and caught Gerard gaping with a look of complete disbelief at his chest while he rubbed where I made contact.  Probably expected my palm to go through him like most people, except I’m not most people.

I didn’t hear boo from Gerard the whole time I was wrestling with the bed frame and mattress in my room.  Nor did I see any sign of him. I didn’t feel relief though, since he could very well come back. And for all my talk about kicking ass, the simple truth was if he decided to stay, nothing short of banishing his soul to the afterlife was going to keep him from staying.

 I didn’t want to dwell on the matter. I got ready for bed by taking off my jeans and slipping on a t-shirt that practically reached my kneecaps.  The bed was cool and my blankets smelled like Mom’s place. Before I knew it sleep swept me away as if I was a piece of driftwood in high tide. As I let the tide take me, I could hear from the distant shore the soft chorus of _Living on a Prayer_ sung softly.


	2. Chapter 2

I was alone the whole time I rattled around the apartment, opening boxes and getting ready for work at the same time. There was a bit of guilt thinking back on how I spoke to Gerard. I mean it wasn’t his fault he was a ghost anymore than it was my own that I was a mediator: that’s just the way things worked out.  One of the ways the universe proves it has a sense of humor. Grandpa definitely wouldn't have approved of my mediating style, which makes me glad that he didn’t come back as a ghost when he passed away.

I wasn't too optimistic that Gerard would stay away. There wasn’t much I could do about it now, except head to work.

The BoomBox is a music store on the outskirts of downtown Belleville flanked between a Domino’s and a collection of brownstones; it was also my new place of work.  The drive clocked at about twenty minutes from my place, so I was twenty minutes early as I drove into the employee parking lot at the back of the store.

I ignored the bit of nervousness I felt as I made my way to the door marked BB’s Employees Only, half expecting for the door to remain locked. The door opened and led to a long hallway, which in turn trailed into the main floor of the store. There was only one employee present, a tall, medium build man with an amazing set of curly, rich brown hair leaning on the store counter, idly flipping through a magazine.

“Hey,” I said.

The guy didn’t even startle, just calmly looked up from his magazine and beamed a smile my way. “Hey! You’re a bit early, but that fine. You’re the new guy . . . Mac?”

“Frank, actually.”

He flushed a little at his error but didn’t give up on his smile, “Sorry, Frank. I’m Ray.” He nodded to a stool right by his own, and rolled his magazine up and stuck it in his back pocket, “Come over here, and I’ll show you how to clock-in the computer. Gotta make sure you get paid.”

It didn’t long to learn the complicated task of “clocking in” or using the register, and there was still some official paperwork I had to fill out right after that.

The store was pretty empty save for one customer idling by the Classic Rock section. The BoomBox, or as I heard Ray already refer to it as the Box, was a wide store with massive store front windows that welcomed natural lighting. The floor was divided with all the wire racks displaying the CD’s and records tucked towards the back of the store, while the instrument supplies and equipment was shelved at the front. A couple of instruments were on the store floor free for any customer to try their hand at it. Ray explained how more instruments were in the storage room, but they were only brought out if a customer requested it.  The ocean blue painted walls shared space with posters of various bands and artists spanning genres and framed art all musically themed and in good taste. A cork board by the entrance was cluttered with thumb-tacked flyers.

“You done there, Frank?” Ray asked.

I nodded, initialing the last page before handing the stack over to him.

“Ok, let’s get you restocking some of the shelves.”

As we restocked, Ray kept a steady stream of chatter going, his tone never losing its brightness. Even when he cursed it came out bright and cheerful.  I wondered if anyone could deny someone as optimistic as Ray anything; he was as fresh as a summer breeze. Our conversation took on an easier turn when Ray brought up his guitar and being in a band. 

“No way!” I said sorting out some bass strings. “You’re going on tour?”

Ray looked sheepish, “Just for a month around November. We’re not big or anything.” He looked at me and addressed me as seriously as a commander would his platoon. “So I’m counting on you Frank to be the best worker in the history of BoomBox workers while I’m gone and keep this store running smoothly. Make me proud to have trained you. ”

I gave him a mock salute and said, “I’ll be the best of the best of the best, sir. With honor.”

Ray barked out a laugh. “Do you play?”

I nodded and admitted to owning a Fender Stratocaster, and the conversation quickly revolved around playing techniques and our personal history learning how to play. Like me Ray was self-taught, though it was quickly apparent that Ray was a lot more knowledgeable about the technical aspect. I can’t recall the last time I enjoyed talking to someone besides Dewees.

“We’ll have to jam sometime soon,” Ray said easily.

 “Sure, that would be great,” I said trying to match Ray’s casualness. Mentally though, there was quite a bit of fist pumping and cheesy smiling _. Hey look, Ma, I’m making a friend_. Besides, it might be the Jimi Hendrix-esque hair of his, but I fully expected Ray to be a BAMF at the guitar.

The soft sound of the doorway’s bell chime rang as someone entered the store.

“Hey, Christian.” Ray waved at our boss and the owner of The BoomBox as he walked towards us. I was immediately struck by how different Christian looked compared to the last time I met him on the day of my interview. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, exhaustion was etched on his face; even the smile he tried to give us seemed to tremble with tiredness. It was only the gentle kindness found in his blue eyes that seemed familiar to me. He was a stocky man who looked comfortable in his clean oxford shirt and perfectly pressed, tan Dickies;  the only clue that Christian worked somewhere other than an office were the battered Chucks on his feet. 

For the first time since my acquaintance with the guy, Ray frowned, “You ok, man?” 

Christian nodded and asked Ray a question about the inventory. A movement by the entrance of the store caught my eye, and I realized that what I thought was a customer was actually the ghost of a man in a white wife beater and khaki, multi-pocketed shorts. The ghost strode in with arrogant confidence, his focus intent on the back of Christian’s head, his lips curled in a snarl. Everything about this ghost - muscular biceps, a crooked nose, and black hair cropped close to his scalp – signaled trouble. Ghosts rarely scare me, but the underlying danger behind the ghost’s glare sent a shudder of alarm through me.

“ . . . Frank?”

I broke my stare just as the ghost glanced my way. I felt my face heat up as Christian and Ray turned towards the entrance, obviously wondering what it was I was staring at. “I’m sorry, I was spacing.”

Christian shrugged my apology away, “no worries. Just asked how’s your first day going?”

“Great, great!” I winced at how simple I sounded. But Christian only nodded and excused himself to his office. He walked as if cinder blocks were tied to his ankles; the ghost followed a few paces behind.

Ray was looking after Christian, too, the frown still in place and only growing deeper. “I really wish I knew what is up with him.”

I wish I could have felt perfectly at peace letting Christian deal with his obvious problem (well obvious to me).  It didn’t have to be my business anyway, right. Except, matters of the dead had the habit of becoming my business in the end. Which is why instead of ignoring Ray and going back to stocking, I prodded.  “What do you mean? I mean yea, he didn’t look like he’s having the best day.”

Ray snorted, “Try having a crappy month.”

I raised my eyebrows as if to say _go on._

Ray walked back towards the main counter and settled on his stool; I followed but remained standing by the register. “I don’t know. Lately, he’s just been distracted and jumpy. Sometimes he’ll get snappy, and I know you don’t know him, but, trust me, that’s not typical Chris behavior.” Ray dragged a head through his hair clearly worried for his friend.  “I just don’t get it. About a month ago, he was normal,” he gave a short laugh and looked lost in a memory. “He actually came into work practically skipping and claiming he’d fallen in love with this girl he met at the grocery store. Managed to set up a date with her from that first meeting. I mean, who does that? I mean, except guys in chick flicks?”

 I didn’t bother giving his question any thought, “Is he still with her?”

Ray nodded, “Yea.  She drops him off sometimes or picks him up after his shift, will bring him lunch sometimes. She’s pretty nice, and from what I hear everything is still going great. So I don’t think it’s the relationship that’s troubling him.”

There was silence between us filled in by the store music playing The Ramones.  The cogs were turning in my head, and I was wondering if the introduction of the new girlfriend was just a coincidence or the impetus somehow of Christian’s personal ghost stalker.

Ray sighed, “I dunno man. I’m hoping he’ll bounce back from whatever is bothering him.”

I recalled the dark gaze of the ghost, eyes so dark brown they looked black and merciless. I doubted simple hope would rid Christian of his problem.  I could hardly tell that to Ray though, so I gave him a pat on the back and said, “Yeah, me too.”

* * *

 

Before I knew it, six o’clock came around and my first day of work was officially done. There was hardly a chance for me to talk to the angry ghost; Christian stayed in his office for most of the shift, and when he did come out it was to leave for the day, second shadow in tow.

The drive back home seemed to go by faster, probably because I was thinking of ways I could talk to Christian’s ghost stalker without actually, you know, alienating my co-workers by appearing crazy talking to air.

I sighed at my lack of brilliant ideas as I entered my apartment and blinked in surprise to notice Gerard on my futon. He glanced at me for a second before going back to reading my copy of _The Shining_. “Hey, Frank,” he greeted.

Just like that. _Hey, Frank_. As pleasant as a 50’s housewife greeting her breadwinner husband.

I admit I gaped at him for a bit. I just didn’t know where to start. “How’d you know my--”

“Name? That’s what your Mom called you. Well that and Frankie. I can call you Frankie instead if you’d like.” He batted his eyelashes at me.

I narrowed my eyes at him, “I can think of a couple of names I’d like to call you.”

 Gerard didn’t seem fazed by my jibe, only quirked an eyebrow meeting my direct gaze, the stubborn jut of his chin back in place. I don’t know where he got his cocky attitude, especially when last I saw him I left him pretty dumbfounded.

This morning I told myself I would be calmer and friendly if Gerard should appear again. That clearly flew out the window as I pointed at the book in his hand and asked, “Who said you could rifle through my shit?

The bastard had the decency to look a little guilty and quickly set my book on the futon beside him as if it combusted into flames. “Sorry, I guess I got a bit bored this afternoon.” He gazed up at me with a remorseful, puppy dog expression.

 _Jesus Christ_. I feel like Gerard knew exactly what he was doing, so I chose to ignore it. “Didn’t I tell you to shoo, Casper?”

“I have nowhere else to go!” He said, flailing his arms a bit in exasperation.

“There’s a whole world out there for you to – to explore!”

“It’s not home, though.”

I rolled my eyes and gestured towards the small apartment with its urine yellow colored walls. “And _this_ is home?”

“Well it was when I was alive.”

“Newsflash: you’re not alive anymore!”

“Thanks for the fucking report, Diane Sawyer!” Gerard snapped.

I don’t know how our conversation devolved into raised voices and rude Italian gestures (Gerard started that one, I swear), but suddenly I found our entire exchange hilarious and couldn’t help a laugh. Once I started I just couldn’t stop. Gerard looked at me suspiciously as if my laughter was a sign that I’d become unhinged, though before long his own lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Once we quieted, I looked at Gerard and blurted, “Do you know if you’ve been dead long?” I winced as Gerard’s face shut off, but I continued. “If you have living family I could help you reconnect with them.” It wasn’t so outlandish a solution as you might think. A lot of newer ghosts who can’t or don’t want to move on for whatever reason would prefer to look after their family members and stay with them. Kind of like self appointed guardian angels.

This time when Gerard crossed his arms it was not in a defiant manner, more a defensive gesture, a one man hug as he hunched into himself. “I don’t think I’m ready for that,” he said so softly I almost missed it. He hasn’t been dead long, I realized. I suspected that Gerard could have been the last tenant before me.

I shuffled a bit in place feeling pretty awful at how down Gerard seemed. I’d prefer the more annoying, mouthy version of him over this sad sight.

Without my even thinking it, my mouth ran off with, “You have two weeks.” Gerard  slightly tilted his head in confusion. “Two weeks to figure out where else you can go. I guess I can handle a roommate as unwanted as you for a couple of weeks.”

Gerard’s visibly perked up as I spoke to him and by the end of my gracious offer he was beaming a smile at me as if I told him I could give him his old life back. “Two weeks might give me enough time to convince you to let me stay,” he said with a crooked smile, waggling his eyebrows.

I snorted, “Don’t push your luck, Ghost Boy.” I pivoted and headed to my room to change clothes and said, “I can’t even understand why you’d want to stay in this place for your afterlife.”

“Oh, I could think of at least one reason I’d want to stay.” I could hear the smirk in that coy tone that bordered on flirty, but when I whipped my head over to look at him he was back to reading the book, seemingly unaware how his words just set off a chemical reaction under my skin.

Oh boy.  What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

 

The next day at The BoomBox started off in pretty much the same manner. It seemed my original suspicion was right, and Ray is one of those people who are just always happy and cheerful. Ray’s an example of the type of people I _never_ want to see angry; I imagine their anger is scarier than any ghost I’ve ever encountered. 

Ray’s hair was tied back with a rubber band, and there were small beads of sweat at his temple. And after standing in the main floor, I became increasingly aware of the warmth inside the store. Soon enough, I’d feel the sticky film of sweat too.

“AC broke?” I asked

Ray was fanning himself with his magazine and nodded. “In the middle of June, too! Chris came by and let me know the AC repair guy would come by around two; he sounded helluva frustrated though, turns out his AC at his house had broken down too. How messed up is that?”

“Sounds like bad luck,” I said. Or paranormal tampering.

“Anyway, we’ll just have to sweat it out for a bit. Now get over here and take a look at this beauty.” He waved the music magazine at me and flipped through some pages. 

* * *

 

 

Christian didn’t come into the store until a little bit after the AC guy left. The cooling sensation coming from the air vent was practically euphoric after nearly five hours of oppressive heat,  despite us leaving the front door open; the humming sound of a functional AC was music to my ears. I said so to Ray, and he could only murmur in agreement as he hogged the air flowing from the vent right over the main counter.

 Christian chuckled, though his blue eyes only held sympathy, upon seeing his workers seeking out the cool air like dogs with their heads poking out of an open car window. Without another word, he strode to the back on his way to his office I could only assume. The ghost was still on Christian’s heels; a sight that reminded me I hadn’t figured out a way to talk to the spirit. 

Ray and I allowed ourselves a few more moments of unproductive basking by the vents then returned to our abandoned tasks at the counter. My attention was caught by the reappearance of Christian. More specifically, my attention was caught by the angry furrow of his brow and tense shoulders as he took angry strides towards us.

Christian raised his hand and held an empty picture frame with its glass front broken and jagged. His eyes locked with Ray’s. “Where is it?” His voice didn’t rise, but there was a sharp-knife edge within its softness. My heart beat fast in response to thickening tension, as if I was the one caught by the sharp point of Christian’s tone.

Ray swallowed audibly, hands clenching and unclenching. “Where’s what?”

“The picture!” He said. Customers glanced over at us as if sensing drama ready to unfold. “My and Theresa’s picture. It was in this frame,” he shook the frame in emphasis, “yesterday before I left for work, and today I find a broken frame with a missing picture.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t touch that frame; Chris, I wouldn’t do something like that,” Ray said, calm and reasonable. I didn’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“Well who else could it be?” Christian’s attention shifted to me in narrowed speculation. Despite an initial reaction to avoid his gaze, I met his gaze. I wasn’t guilty of anything, but I still flinched at the accusation I could see coming as he opened his mouth.

Ray interrupted with a pleading and soft, “Chris. It wasn’t us.”

Something in Ray’s voice must have reeled Christian back from the well of anger his was in. He blinked and released a deep breath like a deflated balloon. He ran a shaky hand over his hair and said, “Sorry. Ray – I . . . I’ll be in the storage room.”

We watched him leave, and I watched the ghost rejoin Christian from the hallway’s entrance.  I’m calling the ghost in the office with the picture frame for this mystery. I turned towards Ray and found him looking out the window, face blank though his hands were doing their open-close-open routine as if squeezing invisible stress balls. Looking at him, I felt helpless as to how to best return his good humor. I was saved from saying anything when a customer walked up and asked for help.  

I was in the middle of helping another customer choose a pedal when a crashing sound resounded to the main floor, startling a number of people with the suddenness of it.

 _What now?_ I wondered.

“What was that?” Ray asked.

I didn’t even respond, and instead quickly excused myself from the customer and jogged to the storage room.  I heard a groan and felt Ray right behind me when we entered the area.

Christian was buried beneath boxes and the tall, heavy metal shelf that held them. The man gave another pained groan, and me and Ray jumped into action. Ray handled righting the metal shelf back up, while I gently grabbed at boxes, careful not to cause Christian more pain.

The boxes were not light, but they were not bone-crushingly heavy either, and in moments we cleared out the mess.

I knelt by Christian’s prone figure, he wasn’t unconscious, though his eyes were closed, “Are you okay?” I asked. “I don’t want to move you until we figure out if anything is broken.”

Christian released a few harsh breaths before saying, “No, I don’t think anything is broken. Pretty sure I’m going to have some spectacular bruises though.”

“Think I should call an ambulance?” Ray asked me.

“He could have a concussion,” I answered.

Christian shook his head, “Just give me a few minutes.”

The ghost was not far away, leaning by a corner of the storage room. He was smiling with malice that had anger burning up my throat. I swallowed it down and returned my attention to Christian who was making an effort to rise up.

Ray rushed to help, wrapping a strong arm around Christian’s torso and using his own strength as a leverage to get him to his feet.  Slowly, the pair made their way out of the storage room; Ray turned back realizing that I wasn’t following.

I shook my head, “Just going to organize these boxes real quick and check that the shelf is sturdy.”

I watched them leave, waited a few more seconds to make sure they were well out of earshot. I turned and was immediately face to face with the ghost’s shirt. _What is it with ghost and personal space?_ I took a couple of steps back before craning my head up to get a good look at him, fucker was at least six inches taller than me.

Even up close, his eyes looked black. When I first saw him, I knew using the threat of violence to get this ghost to see reason would backfire, painfully, on me. The guy was not exaggeratedly ripped, but his biceps bulged and something about his rigid stance hinted at military experience.  No, this guy couldn’t be beaten into submission, and I feared talking wasn’t going to help either.

He broke the silence first, “I knew you could see me, little faggot.”

“Glad your powers of observation didn’t die with the rest of you.” _Oh, bad move, Frank_. The ghost did not like backtalk judging by how quickly he clenched his fists.  I quickly held up a placating hand up, “Look, I just want to know what’s your deal with Christian?”

“I don’t have to explain nothing to you,” he said, unconcerned and starting to brush past me.

Unthinkingly, I grabbed his upper arm, “Wait.” I didn’t get to say anything else before he ripped his arm from my grasp; I barely dodged his backhand swing.

He took a couple steps back, eyes wide and lips twisted in distaste as he yelled, “What the fuck are you?” The metal shelves in the storage room quaked, signaling the ghost was exerting a lot of energy. With enough focus and energy, a ghost can shear stone as if it were as soft as butter. It’s an ability all ghosts have, but many don’t realize the potential of their power. It’s just my luck the ghost of a sociopath learned such a nifty trick. “Don’t touch me. Just mind your own business. She’s mine, you hear? I will not stand by while someone tries to take my place.” He stormed off and the shelves calmed.

Ghosts, man, touchy, entitled bastards all of them.

Before I went to check on Christian and Ray, I walked back to the main floor. For all we know, the whole place could have been looted while we were out back. An unfounded worry it seemed, since the store was just as stocked as we left it, though there were definitely less customers.

There was a dark haired woman walking up to the counter, looking around as if confused by the lack of people manning the register.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

She turned towards me, her full lips aiming for a smile but falling short. “Oh, could you let Christian know Theresa’s here to see him?” The woman had a slight Spanish accent.

“Theresa?” _So this was the girlfriend_.

“Yes,” she brushed back a lock of dark hair, “I brought him a late lunch. He wasn’t expecting me, so I could leave it with you if he is too busy”

I belatedly noticed the take out bag she was clutching, “Oh. No, you can just go on back with me. Sorry, Christian just had an accident a few minutes ago so –“ I stopped talking.

Theresa’s face drained of color. “Accident?”  The word trembled from her lips and she didn’t wait for my response, only walked towards the back of the building like a mini homing missile.

Theresa bumped into Ray just as he was exiting Christian’s office. She didn’t even seem to notice. “What happened?” She asked as she soon as she entered the office, her voice edging towards shrill.

Christian, from behind his desk, rubbed the nape of his neck with an uncomfortable expression. For once, though, the ghost wasn’t present. Huh, I guess I freaked him out just enough for him to make himself scarce. I doubt it’ll be so easy the next time I see him.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Ray said, backing up and leaving the door slightly ajar.

I muttered bathroom and pointed at the employee bathroom right across the office. Ray flapped a hand at me, preoccupied with his own thoughts.

As soon as Ray was out of my view, I exited the bathroom and strained to listen to the conversation going on in the office. It wasn’t difficult. Theresa, in her agitation, wasn’t controlling the volume of her voice.

“I told you, _amor_. I told you. This is all Nico’s doing, I just know it.”

The cool voice of Christian followed, “Theresa, this was just a work-related accident. I never noticed how unstable the shelving back there was. I’d rather it happened to me than any of my employees. This is not some attack by your dead husband.”

“No, no,” her accent was becoming more pronounced, “I know he never left. I could feel him, ever since the funeral, watching me.”

“There is no such thing as ghosts, honey.” Christian didn’t sound impatient or patronizing, only resigned and, oddly, calm.

 The sound of a choked sob, “He told me he’d never let me go. He’d always say that, even as he’d beat me. I didn’t want to believe it true even after his death.” Theresa was crying freely now, the heartbreaking sound as clear as if I was in the office. I didn’t realize how tightly my fists were balled up until I felt the sting of my nails biting into my palm. 

* * *

 

 

 

Ray and I didn’t talk much when I returned from the back. There wasn’t much to say and any other topic of conversation would seem like forced pleasantry. Both of us were lost in our respective thoughts. I was mentally scrambling for possible solutions. Civil conversation was out of the question. I can hardly ignore the issue away like I do when a ghost with an impossible request bothers me. . . There was one way. Though it could be as dangerous for me as it would be for Nico.

  Theresa and Christian walked over to us. Well, Theresa walked; Christian was limping his way over. “I convinced him to go to the hospital.” Theresa said, I couldn’t look at her red-rimmed eyes.

“Would you mind closing up for me, Ray?” Christian asked.

All hurt from the picture frame incident obviously forgiven and forgotten, Ray nodded fervently and said, “Course not, let me know if you need me to open up tomorrow, Chris.”

They were near the door before Theresa stopped, “Oh, I forgot my purse in the office.”

The figurative light bulb went off in my head instantly and I took my chance. “I’ll get it for you.” At Theresa’s unsure glance, I quickly added, “It’s not a problem. Help Christian into the car, and I’ll bring your purse out for you.” I was already walking towards the back as I spoke not really giving her a chance to turn down my offer.

The purse was right by the desk along with the takeout food. I grabbed both, and quickly as to not arouse suspicion, I went through Theresa’s purse trying to find her ID. It was in her wallet fitted right into the plastic holder especially made for IDs and driver licenses.

_4540 Stillwater St. Belleville, NJ._

I committed the address to memory. As I quickly put her wallet back and headed back to the front, my mind went on overdrive planning tonight’s B&E.  


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a good thing my taste in clothing leaned towards black or the darker shades of the color spectrum. It made putting on something appropriate for a break-in a simple enough task. In five minutes, I was dressed in a plain black tshirt, my most comfy pair of black cargo pants, and sneakers to match. I decided to leave the hoodie behind because a youth wearing a hoodie in the middle of a hot June night is exactly the type of thing the neighborhood watch looks out for.

 I hadn’t unpacked my gear yet – in the optimistic hope that I wouldn’t have to access my tools of the trade so soon - and it took me a minute in the living room to locate the box under the futon way in the back.  I was crawling back from under the futon, when I heard “Whatcha doing there?”

Despite myself, I jolted in surprise and banged my head on the metal frame. “Jesus Christ,” I complained rubbing at the sore spot.

“Sorry to disappoint, but it’s Gerard.” He pointed at himself as if to clarify, the dork.

I rolled my eyes while I patted some dust off my clothes. Gerard watched as I opened a Converse shoebox, taking out a pocket-size Maglite, testing it to make sure it worked, and then rolled out my lock pick set.

“Preparing for a little felony?” Gerard asked voice carefully blank.

“Just some mediator business I got to attend.”  I said as I tucked the Maglite and pick set into my deep pockets. Gerard was frowning at me. “What?”

“You could get into some trouble.”

“Yea, we’ll that’s a possibility.  What I do know for sure though is if I don’t do this there will be trouble for Christian.” At Gerard’s blank look, I clarified, “My boss.”

My reasoning did nothing to iron out the worry on Gerard’s face. “What’s going on, Frank?”

I grabbed my car keys and said as I headed for the door. “Nothing. Just a little ghost problem at work. I’m handling it.” I didn’t wait for him to respond before shutting the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The house on 4540 Stillwater Street was a picturesque home painted white with hunter green trimming and flowerbox windows. A cobblestone walkway led up to a porch with a pair of wicker rocking chairs. It suited Theresa – practical without sacrificing beauty. The porch light was not on, and neither were any of the house lights. The driveway was empty of cars. Still, I rang the doorbell, prepared to run if I heard activity in the house.

No response.

I tried the doorbell one more time just to make sure.

No sign of life. Perfect. I surveyed the neighborhood, casting a critical eye for a fluttering curtain or shifting blinds. It was after ten, the neighborhood was quiet save for the summer noise of crickets. It looked like the coast was clear. I vaulted over the porch, quickly making my way towards the backyard.

At the back entrance, I once again listened and watched for any signs of trouble, before getting my lockpick set out. The top bolt gave me a good battle, but in less than ten minutes I was in a clean kitchen and quietly shutting the door behind me.

I clicked my Maglit on, not stopping to take in my surroundings. My focus was on getting what I came here for as quickly possible.  With light feet, I made my way through a short hallway, shining my beam of light at a decorative table with picture frames on it. None of them held a picture of Nico.

I sidestepped an ottoman in the living room. I was really hoping that Theresa had kept at least one picture frame up of her dead husband (though I could understand if she got rid of every photograph once the wife-beating asshole choked off).  But for once, my wishing paid off. On the fireplace mantle, right smack in the middle of it, was a 4x6 picture of Nico in his army greens.

I grabbed at it as if it was the Holy Grail, stuffed into one of my bigger pockets, and high-tailed it out of the living room. A heavy hand landed on my shoulder and spun me around roughly as I was passing through the kitchen.

Nico’s furious face was only inches from mine. He didn’t even bother with questions, just shot a quick punch that clipped me right in the jaw. A flash of pain. I quickly recovered and with a great burst of strength pushed Nico back. He must not have expected the force behind my push, small guy that I am, because he fell back and rattled the small kitchen table; I didn’t wait, pulse pounding in my ears, I ran towards the door and managed to get it open before I was tackled from behind and into the unforgiving ground.

I gasped out, at loss of breath for a few precious seconds.  The fucker was straddled on my back, and he pulled my head back by my hair brutishly – note to self, buzz cuts are much more suitable for this line of work. Nico’s grip was firm and unrelenting; I was afraid he would break my neck.

In the next instant, Nico’s weight was off me with a startled _oof_ , and I quickly rolled onto my back, trying to get back to my feet.  Gerard was wrapped around a raging, entangled Nico like a human squid.

“Run!” Gerard yelled, squeezing Nico’s torso tighter.

I ran. Ran past the backyard fence. Ran past Stillwater St. Kept on running until I reached my car four blocks away.

 I gulped for breath, feeling shaky at the knees. _I left Gerard behind with the psycho_. The thought looped around my mind. I was pointing my feet back towards the direction I ran when --

“Get in the car now,” Gerard’s voice came from the passenger side of the car, and before I could blink he was in the vehicle making hurry up hand motions.

I quickly followed suit and sped out of the neighborhood. I felt myself relax once we were well out of the suburban area.

“I thought you had a handle on this type of thing.” Gerard mocked.

“Don’t start.”

Remarkably, he didn’t continue. 

“So that’s the ghost problem bothering your boss, huh? I can see what you meant by trouble. Guy packs a fierce punch.”  I felt the cool sensation of Gerard’s finger prod the bruise I could feel throbbing on my jaw; it was a soothing sensation that inexplicably caused my face to flush.

“W-What were you doing there?” I spluttered.

Gerard settled back into his seat and put on wounded face. “No, it’s okay, don’t thank me for saving your ass. Just ask me questions in an accusatory tone, go ahead.”

I looked over at Gerard. “Seriously, how did you know where I was? Did I just not notice you get in my car when I left the apartment?”

 He was quiet for a stretch of time that I didn’t think he would actually respond. “It turns out, I just have to think of you, concentrate on you, to realize where you are.”

My heart did a funny flip.

He continued, “I doubt it means anything special. Maybe ghosts can hone in mediators or something?”

My heart face-planted mid flip. Right, it wasn’t anything special. “Maybe.” I worrisome thought occurred to me then. “Do you think Nico figured that out?”

Gerard laughed, “Nah, he must still be rubbing his balls after I punched them.”

I felt my eyebrows rise to my hairline, “You punched Nico’s balls?”

“Well, he was about to kick the crap out of me. So I saw the chance, and I took it.” Gerard gave quick jab of his fast as if to demonstrate.

I bit my lip to control my laughter, but it was to no avail. I’ll be the first to admit that the quality of my laugh is more of a girlish giggle than a manly chuckle or deep belly laugh - a fact that I never felt self conscious about until it filled the car with Gerard within clear earshot. Gerard joined in first with a snort that dissolved into his own nasally laughter that washed my self consciousness away. 

We were quiet for the rest of the drive to the apartment. I wondered why Gerard was still in the car; I mean, he could see I was okay, so it would have been no big deal for him to dematerialize back home. I could see him from the corner of my eyes on the passenger seat, his corona glow faint like an expiring glow stick.

A couple of blocks away from home, Gerard jolted up like a rabbit on high alert.  “What time is it?” He asked scanning the neighborhood.

With a glance at the car radio I told him it was ten minutes till eleven. He turned to me with a childish grin and bright eyes, “Want to see something cool?”

Before I could respond, Gerard directed me to turn left on the upcoming street. And without questioning it, I turned left.  A couple more directions and we were in a small, dirt parking lot a couple of yards away from a large recreational field equipped with a couple of soccer nets; nearby a hiking trail led into a wooded area deep in shadows and night. 

We were the only souls in the area, though I kept my ears tuned for the sound of trouble. I followed Gerard across the damp grass of the field, dimly lit by the yellow light of the two working light posts planted in the wide open space, and caught sight of a lone set of swings up ahead. He sat on one swing, swaying gently, red hair unruffled by the breeze, and patted the swing by him in a silent invitation to sit down.

I sat, the creaking complaint of the swing’s chains breaking the silence before I asked, “So what are we do –“

“Look,” Gerard said softly and pointed towards the field.

It was like watching an image develop on a Polaroid. At first there was only the silent open space of the field; the bandstand was the first thing that shimmered then solidified into view: a simple wooden platform holding a quintet of musicians dressed in velvet suits of burgundy and playing gleaming instruments. Once the bandstand came into opaque focus, the rest of the scene quickly followed – phantom twinkling lights wrapped around and dangled down from a wide canopy that stretched over just about half of a soccer field. Excluding the quintet, there were dozens and dozens of ghost ,all glowing brighter as the seconds passed and their incorporeal forms took more definitive forms. Men in their olive green military service uniforms and garrison hats flirted and danced with women with hair beautifully coiffed and long flowing dresses and skirts. They were beautiful. They were unaware of our presence, unaware of anything but each other and the moment they were in. I could hear the murmur of their voices faintly, the sound of laughter. The quintet played “How High the Moon”.  The music and singer’s baritone made its way to me soft and tinny, _Somewhere there’s music. It’s where you are. Somewhere there’s heaven. How near, how far . . ._ The men and women swayed as they danced; they looked youthful, timeless. All tension and worry was forgotten as I watched them.

Gerard’s voice was still soft as if in reverence to the scene, “I think I remember Grandma telling me how they used to hold dances for the servicemen in this field.  Every night at about eleven, they’ll come back and have a last dance. Most of them it makes me calm to watch them, sometimes sad. ”

I kept my voice hushed as well, I felt like I was watching an old movie in a theatre. “I’ve heard about this. Residual ghosts . . . some argue they are not ghosts at all, but just an imprint of energy ceaselessly looping its moment of highest energy.” I laughed at Gerard’s baffled expression, “Or something like that.”

The phantom twinkling lights were dimming as were the ghosts. They didn’t cease their dancing or revelry as they faded away. Soon it was only the music that remained - _We’re asking how high high high high is the moon-_ before that too trailed off into the night.

I didn’t make a move to get up, enjoying the intermittent breeze and the tranquil hum of my thoughts. Neither did Gerard. I looked over at him and caught him staring at me already. He squirmed a bit, brushing a lock of his behind his ear. It was struck me as odd seeing him so obviously disconcerted by my attention; a small part was pleased that I could affect him in such a way.

“What?” He finally asked.

“Just . . . Thanks.  For saving my ass.”

He looked surprised, but that only lasted for a brief moment before he smiled at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anytime, Frank.”

 I curbed the impulse to lean towards him and instead propelled my swing to and fro. I found myself wondering about Gerard, wanting to know not just what lead him to his current state but the before. Everything about him before he passed. While my curiosity didn’t surprise me, the intensity behind it did. What’s worse, I didn’t know how to voice my questions.  

“I think it’s pretty amazing what you do,” Gerard said suddenly.

I blinked at him, “What?”

“You seeing ghosts and helping them . . . it’s just amazing to me, really. You can really make a difference, Frank.” He smiled at me, eyes bright.

I shook my head, “There’s nothing amazing about it. In fact, the reality of it can be pretty tiresome and is poorly compensated. Most days I feel like I’m living for the dead rather than my own life.”

Gerard seemed to consider this frowning slightly.

“My grandpa would have agreed with you though,” I admitted. “He thought this mediating stuff was something to take pride in and with the utmost sense of responsibility.”

“No way!” I was fully prepared for Gerard’s awe, though despite myself I couldn’t help a small grin at childish delight. “Your grandpa has the same ability?”

“Had.” I corrected, “He passed away from a stroke . . . it was only months after he found out I could see ghosts too.” I could see the question in Gerard’s face, so I answered it before he could ask, “No, he didn’t come back.” Like I said, the universe really does have a funny sense of humor. As a kid, I had naively assumed that gramps and I would have adventures helping ghosts, or I’d imagine myself as his apprentice like a student learning from an aged, learned wizard.

“Sorry, Frankie,”

I shrugged his apology away and concentrated on getting my swing to move to and fro, “What about you? What was your life like?” Oh, look! Seems like I was able to find the words after all.

Gerard gazed at the sky, practically transfixed by the waning moon, and I figured he was choosing to ignore my blunt question. “My life was pretty great actually. Not that I knew or believed it then.”  He swallowed audibly. A feeling of dread seeped in me. “I have – had a family. A younger brother.  I was even doing a pretty good as a freelance illustrator.”

Despite the dread, it was in the tip of tongue to ask him what happened. The pained and hopeless look in his face, still pointed upward at the sky, stopped me. My gut twisted, an ominous warning that I wouldn’t like the answer.

Jumping off my swing, I gave Gerard a slight shove and tilted my head towards the car. “Let’s get going, yea?” He only nodded and this time, I led the way.

Gerard finally spoke when we got back into the car, “So why were you in that house earlier today? Investigating?”

“More like stealing, I’m sorry to say.” I pulled the picture from my pocket and handed it to Gerard.

His face twisted in confusion, “Why would you want his picture?”

As I was backing up from the parking spot I said, “It’s what I need to banish the asshole from this realm.” 

* * *

 

 

Nico did not trail after Christian the next day when he came in. I could only narrow my eyes at the lack of ghost in the store. I couldn’t fool myself into believing it was a good sign.  

I searched every room of the store multiple times during the morning, on high alert for any sign of him.  Not only for Christian’s sake, but also for my own safety.  After last night’s fight, I definitely made it on Nico’s hit list. Yet, despite my paranoia, my morning was absent of ghosts. I wanted to laugh at myself - typically I would have _loved_ , practically cartwheeled with glee, at the prospect of a ghost-free morning. But look at me now –manning at the register, twitchy and paranoid trying to catch a glimpse of a white beater shirt on my peripherals. Even Gerard wasn’t around when I woke up and got ready for work.

He was probably still miffed at me after last night’s conversation.

_“Banish? Like an exorcism or something?”_

_“Kind of, it’s a ritual that supposed to force the ghost wherever they go when they follow the bright light.”_

_Gerard scowled looking as if he tasted mercury on his tongue or something, “ ‘Supposed to’? Haven’t you done this before?”_

_I immediately became defensive, which made me sound like a sullen brat, “No, I only theoretically know how.”_

_He threw his hands up in exasperation, “Already this is turning out to be a dumbass idea!”_

Suffice to say, my retort wasn’t very mature and whatever harmony Gerard and I found in the field dissolved into an angry fight. I rubbed at my temples willing the forming headache to go away. I should really start carrying aspirin in my pocket.

Christian, a small bruise on his forehead, tapped on the counter to get my and Ray’s attention as we were both pricing incoming stock. He still looked tired and walked with a hesitant gait, but he seemed to be in a better mood, more resembling the relaxed, soft-spoken man who interviewed me. Ray and him acted as their altercation yesterday never happened, an unnecessary scene buried under the rug of friendship and no hard feelings.

 “I’m heading out for a sandwich at the café down the street. Either of you want anything?”

Ray wrote down both our orders on the back of receipt paper and handed it over to Christian. He gave us a wink, and as I watched him walk away, this feeling of dread flared through me, my instincts screaming at me to follow.

“Yo, Christian, mind if I come with? You might need some help carrying everything.” I widened my eyes, trying to mimic Gerard’s puppy dog look.

Christian just waved me over to him and let me pass through the front store door first.

*

*

*

Maybe, my trusty mediator instincts are becoming oversensitive. The trip to the café and walk back was turning out to be pretty uneventful; I mean, the most dangerous thing that could have happened was Christian was close to stepping on some dog shit. Don’t worry. Super mediator was there to stop such a catastrophe.

We were only a block and half away from The Boombox and Christian was explaining how the visit to the emergency room ended with a clean bill of health. No concussion or fractures.

“That’s great to hear.” I replied, trying to step around a huffing and puffing man pushing a refrigerator on a large dolly towards a U-Haul while balancing the flimsy cardboard container holding our drinks.

“Yea, Theresa, she worries too much about me.” Christian said with a toothy grin not looking at all annoyed at being worried over by Theresa.  Recalling Mom and how her worry for me can sometimes border on smothering, I couldn’t really understand what pleased Christian so much about it. To each his own, I guess.

We were waiting for the go ahead from the traffic sign to cross our last intersection, when a voice bellowed out, “Watch out!”

It happened in snapshot instants. The huffing and puffing man from earlier was yelling out warnings. A dolly with a massive refrigerator impossibly balanced on it charged towards Christian. Its trajectory and force should have been impossible. I glimpsed Nico at a distance before I caught sight of Christian, blue eyes wide and paralyzed.

I didn’t think. I tackled Christian out of the way, covering him with my body as best I could once we landed. A great crashing sound and the squeal of tires and crunch of metal resounded. Cold wetness seeped through my jeans, and for a horrified moment I thought I pissed myself, but it was only spilled soda that was crushed during the tackle. I waited a few seconds before lifting up my head and removing myself from Christian.

He was unharmed, a bit shocked if the glazed look in his eyes were anything to go by. He slowly gathered himself up. “Oh, God.” He said as he looked at the street.

I felt my stomach drop as I looked over the beat up Camry that was the unfortunate victim of the possessed refrigerator.  A shattered window and a crater of a dent on the passenger side door seemed to be the only physical damage. But the driver of the car, a woman holding a crying, terrified toddler at her hip, looked at the damage in barely restrained anger and disbelief. She was visibly trembling and looked near tears herself.

I gulped back some of my anger, craning my head around searching for Nico. He was nowhere to be found. Of course. With absolute certainty I knew that this could not continue. Tonight I would have to confront him.

For the last time, if either one of us gets our way.

I arrived at the apartment laden with bags. Gerard surprised me with a warm greeting as I entered.  

 I gave a cautious _hey_ of my own before settling my supplies on the card table. “What’s this?” Gerard asked holding a plastic container that sloshed with red liquid.

“Chicken’s blood. Put it in the fridge, I can’t have it spoil.”

Gerard wrinkled his nose but did what I asked.

“Is that for the banishment thing you mentioned last night?” He asked casually.

“Uh-huh, I’ve got to get everything prepared for tonight.” I grabbed one of canvas grocery bags and started shoving the candles and the ziplocked bags of herbs I purchased into them.

His casual tone quickly turned brisk. “Tonight? Are you doing it here?”

“No, it’s more effective to do it somewhere the spirit has passed through. Ideally, Theresa’s home would be the best place. But I’ll have to settle for the storage room at work.” I crumpled all the trash bags into small balls and placed them under kitchen sink for future use.

I could tell from Gerard’s stormy expression that he wanted to argue and make a point about the hazards of my plan. Points that I was very much aware. “Don’t start, Gerard. I have to do this.”

He made a frustrated noise and paced the living room mumbling under his breath. I didn’t understand why he was so rattled, and I knew what I said next would really not go well with him. Making my way over to him, I stood in the way of his pacing.

“Hey, I need you to listen to me and promise me something.”

Already his expression was wary and shrewd, “What?”

“You cannot follow me. You can’t be anywhere near The Boombox, ok? I don’t know how powerful or even how exactly this ritual works. But it’s possible you could be banished too if you’re around.”

I could see him preparing to argue, but I continued in completely serious, “Just don’t go there.  Promise me, Gerard?”

He looked at me in surprise, though his face was still stubbornly set into an expression I was quickly associating as pure Gerard, “Frankie . . .”

I didn’t back down and locked eyes with him. “Promise?”

He nodded. A quick, reluctant jerk of his head.

I tried aiming a reassuring smile at him, but he was making it a point not to look at me. I left him to his thoughts and slipped into my room, shutting the door behind me.

 On my bed was a guitar case, the only thing Grandpa made a point of leaving me before he passed. My mother had always been confused as to why he left such a battered, old thing to a five year old; I was pretty uninterested in the thing myself at that age. It wasn’t until years later I realized he left me with more than just a case. The hard plastic lining was easy to remove and hid a deep compartment holding journals Grandpa kept, chronicling his life as a mediator, as well as a few notes and detached pages, most yellowed and crinkled with age. It was within this compartment that I found the instructions for the banishing ritual.

The banishment ritual was written on a large piece of vellum with ragged edges that still wafted the smell of dust and, oddly, fresh soil. According to one of Grandpa’s journal entries, the ritual was torn straight from a voodoo priestess’s own book and given to him as a gift during a visit to New Orleans in his youth.

I’ve read through the instructions dozens of times over the years; mostly out of boredom, but also with the thought I might someday need it. And I did so again, lying on my bed, mentally checking off that I had all the items I needed and then trying to commit the instructions and a chant into my memory. I didn’t even spare a thought as to what I would do if this did not work.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and it was the incessant chirping of my cell phone alarm jolted me awake. Midnight and time to go.

Gerard was looking out into the neighborhood from the only window in my living room, his stony profile cast in shadow until I flicked on the light. I gathered all my materials and hefted the supply bag on my shoulder, carefully tucking in the vellum page, before making my way to the door. A hand closed the door shut just as I was opening it. Gerard was over me looking at me, eyes dark and grave, lips set into a tight line.

He quickly licked his lips and said, “Frank, there’s got to be another way.”

I shook my head. “This is the only way.” Trust me, I didn’t say out loud, if there was another, safer way, I’d do that instead. I’m hardly a hero.

Gerard didn’t remove his hand from the door. “Come on,” I said gently, placing my own hand over his to persuade him to remove it and was surprised to find his hand was at room temperature. “This is me trying to make a difference, Gerard. Now, let me go.”  

There were a few tense moments when were only stared at each other. Infinitesimally, it seemed as if his face was drawing closer to mine, practically at kissing distance. Gerard slowly slid his hand from under mine. “Be careful, ” he said.

I remembered to breathe and left him in the dark, a shadow posted by the window.

* * *

 

 

I opened the employee entrance with the spare key I snagged from Christian’s office earlier that day. Poor guy, he was so shell-shocked from the incident earlier, I could have practically stolen from the register, and he wouldn’t have noticed. On that note, I really had to discuss security with Christian, you know, once I was done breaking into the place.

I walked into total darkness, the hallway a stretching abyss, and towards the storage room, not wanting even the tiny light of my Mag-Lite alerting a community watchdog of my presence. The lights flickered on in the storage room and began to buzz industriously.

I quickly got to work, rifling through my bag and taking out all the materials. It didn’t take long to create what the instructions called the binding circle: I set white candles down using melted wax to support in a circle formation about six inches in diameter and lit them, then rested Nico’s picture in the center of it. With painstaking effort, my hands shaking slightly, I drew the necessary symbols on the floor with a paintbrush and the cool chicken’s blood using the instructions as guidance. As the last preparation, I burned peppermint, lavender, and basil in a ceramic bowl. The scent of the herbs quickly filled the room.

I was most apprehensive about the next part, hoping I didn’t screw it up with a bumbling tongue. Thankfully, Grandpa wrote in a phonetic cheat sheet, but the chant was an intimidating mix of French and something else I didn’t have a word for.  I began to chant. At first the words felt foreign on my tongue, a bit uncomfortable. After the fifth repetition though, I felt a wave of calm and energy flush through me. My tongue became loose and flexible as I chanted.  Distantly, through a subtle thrum of excitement, I thought that this could actually work.

A hard shove right between my shoulder blades stopped me mid word, and I painfully dropped to my knees. I looked up to see Nico baring his teeth at me. The calm and strength I felt coursing through me instantly vanished, leaving me feeling weak and vulnerable. Dazedly, I couldn’t understand what was happening. The candles and herbs continued to burn.

He pointed at the binding circle “What the hell is all this?” As soon as Nico saw his picture at the center of the circle, his face flashed murderously before it stilled and twisted itself into an easy, awful smile. “Trying to get rid of me, Frankie boy?”

Alarm ran through me. He could have found out my name during work, nothing to worry about. But his smile cruelly begged me to ask the question. “How do you –“ Nico’s foot kicked out; the side of my face burst with pain. The seeping, warm sensation of blood poured from my nose, though I didn’t think it was broken.

_Fuck, I’m fucked_. I fought the skitter of panic. My eyes scanned the binding circle, trying to spot what could have gone wrong. It was working; I felt it. What went wrong? What -

_There!_

Another kick, this time aimed at my torso had me curled on my side, groaning in pain. I reached out blindly for something, anything to defend myself. But there was only the concrete floor and a plastic container within my reach.

“It’s amazing what you can find out through the ghost network, Frank. It might please you to know you’re pretty well known in the spook circles. Your life is practically an open book to us. Now imagine how popular you’ll be dead.” Nico grabbed at the back of my shirt and forced me up, I gasped at the hot flare of pain at my ribs and flung the rest of the chicken’s blood at his face.

He released me, hands instinctively rising to protect his face, and I took the chance to deliver my own kick to his solar plexus and balls. He dropped with a squeal that had me grinning, though I didn’t take the time to relish his suffering. Quickly, I turned back to the circle spotting the smudged symbol that must have been ruined by the knee of my pants when I was pushed.  Since I was out of pig’s blood, I improvised and used the blood from my nose, now dripping sluggishly, to fix the symbol. As soon as my blood hit the symbol and I reconnected the lines, the flames of the candles burned brighter and hotter.

Nico was slowly and shakily getting to his feet with pained grunts. I started chanting, the rhythm and cadence of the words coming back to me naturally.

“I am going to kill you,” spittle dripped from Nico’s lips, “and I am going to drop your dead body on your mother’s front step as a gift to her.” He was back on his feet by this point.

I didn’t stop chanting . .  . probably couldn’t stop if I wanted to now. The words just fell and I was only the broken vessel containing them. The wave of calm and energy coursed through more strongly and pleasantly warm. A black void formed from the ceiling and from it a red, miasmic mist showered thin tendrils onto the binding circle; the mist swirled and twisted looking like a thin wisp of a tornado until it grew thicker, the red purpling, reaching beyond the circle as if it were a living thing. The thick tendrils blackened as soon it touched Nico’s ankle.

Despite the touch of the mist, Nico pulled from its grasp and lunged at me. The mist surrounded him again before he collided into me, pulling him back, dragging him to the binding circle.

I felt no pleasure or anger as I watched him, my voice ricocheting off the walls like bullets. There was only the calm and the power to feel.

But I could hear the howling screams of his rage, feel the foundation beneath me shake with his pulsing energy. The light fixtures creaked ominously above me. The swirling mass of red mist was nearing its peak and I knew, innately, that the end of the ritual was close.  Finally, with one last recitation the mist dispersed along with the black void. The binding circle was empty of Nico save for his picture. And all sense of power and calm lifted from me, leaving me hollow and so tired.

There wasn’t even a chance to drudge up a sense of accomplishment before the light fixture above me snapped off its cables and descended towards me. I could watch it happen in a stupor before I was roughly wrapped in a crushing hug and pushed out of the way.

 “Blegh,” I said as I tried spitting out a mouthful of curly, dark hair.

Ray pushed himself off me, “Holy shit, Frank! Are you okay?”

I blinked at him dumbly. What was Ray doing here?

“Frank,” Ray’s sharp voice rose in pitch, “What was all that?! There was this, this fucking vortex and you were getting your ask kicked at one point and were you speaking another language? And and –“ Ray sputtered.

I closed my eyes, already wishing my new job farewell, or at the least my friendship, with Ray. It took me a couple of swallows for me to say something with my dry throat. “It’s a long story, Ray. Help me up?”

Ray grabbed my outstretch arm and pulled me up. I was shaking, knees buckling; a gentle breeze could practically knock me down. “What are you doing here?”

“Christian asked me to look over some sales reports, but I completely forgot them earlier today. I figured since I couldn’t go to sleep, I might as well drop by and look over them.”

I hardly had the right to judge the guy considering what I like to do during this late hour, but I quirked a judgmental eyebrow at him.

Ray shrugged, “I like to be productive, especially when insomnia hits.”

I could only nod; I was practically sleeping on my feet and could feel the ground tilt to meet me.

“Whoa, Frank,” Ray’s strong arms kept me from falling. “Let’s get you home.”

I roused myself from my tiredness. “Can’t. Have to clean up the binding circle.”

Ray shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. Christian said he wouldn’t be in tomorrow. And I’ll get that cleaned up first thing tomorrow.”

Ray is such good people. Why can’t everyone be like Ray? Sweet, curly haired savior.

“Thanks, Frank. Just give me an explanation and we can call ourselves even.”

I didn’t realize I said that aloud.

Ray led me to his car in the back lot, gently depositing me in the back seat onto which I quickly stretched myself and feel asleep.

*

*

*

Someone was poking me. I probably did die and now a little devil was poking at me with his little pitchfork.

“Frank, you’re home. Come on up.” I drowsily recalled Ray and him driving me home after seeing me do pretty amazing things apparently.  I looked up at him from the seat I was plastered on.

“Need help getting to your door?”

“No, I can make it.” Shakily, I got myself up, took a couple of fortifying breaths and got out of the car.

“Okay, I’ll be by to pick you up tomorrow morning, since your cars still back at work and all.”

I think I nodded at him as I walked towards my apartment. It took fucking forever to get my key to fit in the slot.

Finally I was home.

“Frank?” His voice was a strange mix of delight with worry.

I flapped a hand at Gerard. “Tired. Sleep.” I staggered to my room, didn’t bother getting undressed, just rolled into the covers and practically groaned from the softness of my bed. My bones and muscles were so relaxed, they were practically melting and finally, finally I could give in to the sweet call of sleep. I could feel Gerard by the side of my bed, watching, and I could hardly bring myself to care. I didn’t care about anything.

Tomorrow I’d worry about the consequences. Right now, I was content, relaxed, and enjoying the feather light sensation of temperate fingers carding through my hair.

Tonight I would enjoy warm peace.

* * *

 

“Frank!”

I jolted up nearly smacking my head against Gerard’s. “Wha’?” I blearily squinted at him. The exhaustion was not as debilitating as last night, but I was still pretty tired and in throbbing, mild pain.

“You’ll be late for work if you don’t get up soon.”  I glanced at my alarm clock, yep, I had thirty minutes to get ready before Ray came over.

My eyes widened with the memory of Ray knocking me out harm’s way; Ray admitting to having seen just about everything but the fucking ghost, of course; me promising to explain everything to Ray.

 “Frank?” I glanced up at Gerard who was by the foot of my bed.

“Yea, I’m up, I’m up.” I grimaced at the complaint of sore muscles and shuffled stiffly out of the bed.

Gerard did not question me at all about last night’s ritual. Which was unexpected considering what curious motormouth the guys was. In fact, aside from waking me up, he hadn’t spoken a word, only settling for watching me as I prepared a potent cup of coffee. He finally broke his silence once I took a seat at the card table munching on some toasted bread with butter.

“I have a question,” he said.

_Here we go_. I would have to give him a brief account as to what happened since it wouldn’t be long now for Ray to arrive.

“Why did you make me promise not to go after you?”

Ok, I was not expecting that. I took a gulp of coffee to help the toast stuck in my throat before responding. “I told you yesterday. It would have been too dangerous for you.”

His smile tilted crookedly, “That’s what confuses me. Wouldn’t my getting banished have been a good thing for you? I mean, either way would have been beneficial for you. You would have had me as back up or I would have been banished and you wouldn’t have to deal with an unwanted roommate.”

I gaped at him, “What? No, of course it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you if you got pulled from this plane in that way. Nico was a very specific circumstance. I wouldn’t want to do that to you.”

Gerard considered this, his smile growing wider as he titled his head at me. “So it’s all in the interest of fairness then? That’s the reason you warned me away?”

I nodded vigorously, “Yes.”

With the morning light coming through the window, the green in his eyes stood out as he peered at me from under his lashes. “It’s not because you might be taking a liking to me or that you might care about me a little?”

I tried to will blush away, but I could feel heat rising from my cheeks. I coughed. How the hell do you respond to something like that? “Well, I don’t dislike you.”

Oh God, since when did I become a fourth grader again? Next thing, one of us will be asking whether he like-likes the other.

The trill of my cell phone saved me from my baffled silence. It was Ray letting me know he was outside. I twitched a quick wave goodbye to Gerard.

“See you when you get home, Frank.” He said looking unexplainably smug.

The good thing about the mortifying turn the conversation took was that I completely forgot about being worried about Ray until I was actually buckled into his car.

Ray began with his trademark cheer, “So I have some theories as to what exactly happened last night. But I’d rather you tell me first.”

I exhaled, forcing the apprehension down and aiming for normal. “Jeez, where do I start?”

“The beginning if you have to!” Ray urged, “We have all day, all the time in the world even if the story is that good.”

I felt my first real smile of the day forming on my face. “Right, it’ll be pretty hard to believe.”

He looked at me expectantly before focusing on the road, clearly willing to wait and listen.

“You asked for it.”


End file.
